


blow these blues away

by xylodemon



Series: shameless season ten [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bickering Prison Husbands, Episode Related, M/M, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 04:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21440386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: Ian wakes up wrapped around Mickey's back, his foot caught between Mickey's ankles, his mouth pressed to the curve of Mickey's shoulder. He stretches a little, winces as pins and needles flare in his arm. It's early, their cellblock quiet except for the usual morning static—the gurgle of their toilet, the wheeze-rattle of someone snoring, the slow shuffle of a guard's boots.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: shameless season ten [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604221
Comments: 16
Kudos: 453





	blow these blues away

**Author's Note:**

> This is bickering prison husbands nonsense. Inspired by the the [Season 10](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-pccGaag1g) [Gallavich promos](https://twitter.com/waywardgalagher/status/1193746893551099904); speculation for 10x02. 
> 
> Warnings for canon-typical language/slurs.
> 
> [Tumblr post](https://xylodemon.tumblr.com/post/189078157729/gallavich-fic-blow-these-blues-away-3k).

Ian wakes up wrapped around Mickey's back, his foot caught between Mickey's ankles, his mouth pressed to the curve of Mickey's shoulder. He stretches a little, winces as pins and needles flare in his arm. It's early, their cellblock quiet except for the usual morning static—the gurgle of their toilet, the wheeze-rattle of someone snoring, the slow shuffle of a guard's boots.

"You up?" Mickey asks, his voice dry-mouthed, stuck in his throat.

Ian isn't—not really—but Mickey's pushing back against him, rolling his hips like he's trying to start something. He has a hickey behind his ear, small and pinkish and fading. Ian runs a hand up his side, kisses the back of his neck.

"Maybe."

Mickey makes a low, dark noise and grabs at Ian's thigh. "Yeah?"

It's risky: doing this in the morning, moving together as the sun slants through their tiny window. But Ian's dick is filling, and Mickey's rolling his hips again. He turns his head and mouths at Ian's jaw.

Ian slides on top of him, presses him into the mattress. He drags his hands down to Mickey's waist and tugs his boxers over the curve of his ass. He has another hickey there: bigger, darker, right where his back dimples into his left cheek. Ian touches it with his thumb, then wets his fingers in his mouth and pushes Mickey's legs apart.

The first one slips in easy; the second feels tight, tight. When Ian twists his wrist a little, Mickey shudders and hisses, "Jesus fuck." Ian shifts until he's riding Mickey's thigh and wraps his free hand around Mickey's dick. Mickey moves under him, rocking back onto his fingers, fucking forward into his fist. Ian watches him, caught by the way his back arches, the way his throat flexes and pulls, the way his mouth drops open around each sound. Heat curls in Ian's gut as he grinds against him, as he kisses the top of his spine, the back of his neck, the stretch between his shoulder blades.

"C'mon," Mickey says, when they're both sweat-slick and panting, when Ian's so close to coming he's shaking with it. "Get on me."

"No lube," Ian says. He steals it from the infirmary when he can, but if too much goes missing, he'll start getting searched before he leaves. "You close?"

"Yeah."

"C'mon. Come for me." Ian fucks his fingers in, rough and quick, and Mickey bites back a noise, clutches at his pillow. "You're so fucking hot like this. You—wish I was in you."

Mickey curls in on himself, shaking, gasps out, "Fuck, Ian, fuck, fuck." He squeezes around Ian's fingers, all tight-wet heat, and it's nearly enough to yank Ian over the edge. Breathless, Ian sits back and shoves his boxers down to his knees. Mickey rolls over, grabs at Ian's thigh like he wants Ian to shift up and fuck his mouth. But Ian's too close; just a couple of stokes and he's striping the hem of Mickey's wifebeater.

"Good morning," Ian says, once his blood stops pounding in his ears.

Mickey says, "You got my shirt wet, fucker," and pulls Ian down for a kiss.

+

Ian's morning meds give him a headache; by breakfast, it's a vicious throb behind his eyes. The dining hall feels too loud and too bright; he nudges Mickey toward a table near the back wall, away from the noise and the fluorescent-white glare of the overhead lights.

"You alright?" Mickey asks.

Ian says, "Yeah," and stabs at his nasty powdered eggs.

"You sure about that?" Mickey splits a glance between Ian and the hashbrowns he's drowning in ketchup. "'Cuz you don’t look alright. Your head hurting again?”

"It's not a big deal," Ian says, shrugging. "I just need to eat."

"What you need to do is drink more water."

"I drink plenty of water."

"Since when?"

"Since always."

Mickey stares at him for a second, his fork halfway to his mouth. Then: "Really? When the fuck are you drinking all this water? You chugging it at work? 'Cuz I ain't seen you drinking any water."

Ian says, "Mick, c'mon." He's got Mickey's _lithium and dehydration_ lecture memorized by now; he doesn't need to hear it again. "I don't wanna do this every time I'm—"

"Alright, ladies," shouts Torres—a short, balding guard with squinty eyes and a shiv scar creasing his cheek. He waddles closer with his hand on the butt of his baton. "Is there a problem over here?"

The last time Mickey talked to a guard, he smartmouthed himself into a weekend chain-gang detail, so Ian says, "No problem. We're good," before he can get a word in.

+

Their tier gets an hour of free time after breakfast; at the buzzer, everyone moves out to the exercise yard. Some dickhead who's dealt coke for Terry hangs out at the basketball court, so Mickey and Ian grab a bench by the visitor's cage. It's a cool morning, the sun watery and half-hidden by a bank of grayish clouds; Ian shrugs into the top of his jumpsuit and shifts until he and Mickey are sitting thigh to thigh. They're low on cigarettes, so they smoke two each and share a third. Mickey leans close as he passes it over, his other hand brushing Ian's knee.

Back inside, Ian heads for his bunk. He usually reads before lunch, and Mickey usually draws. But as he starts to climb up, Mickey grabs his waist and pulls him back down. He palms the side of Ian's neck, draws him into a slow, deep kiss that lasts until footsteps shuffle past their door.

As he moves back, Mickey says, "I gotta talk to you."

"About what?"

"About your parole hearing."

"What about it?"

Mickey hesitates, chews his thumbnail for a second. Then: "You know, if you don't get it, you'll still only be here another year."

"What do you mean, 'if I don't get it?' My lawyer says I'm a sure thing." 

"Yeah, I know. But—" Mickey shrugs. "You don't have to be."

Ian just stares at him. "What?"

"I just—you owe it to me to throw your parole hearing so you can stay here."

"You want me to tank my parole hearing on purpose?"

Mickey ducks his head a little, scratches his cheek. "I want you to want to do what you want."

"But if I choose to do it, you'll be happy."

"Yes."

"Then I'll do it!"

Mickey huffs under his breath. "If that's what you want, fine."

Someone pounds on their shared wall—either Walter or Enzo. Ian lowers his voice and says, "Look, we—"

"Forget it," Mickey says, voice clipped. He brushes past Ian and sits on his bunk. "I'm just—you might get outta here in a couple weeks, and I've still got two years. Eighteen months, if this shithole gets crowded and they forget about the sweetheart deal I got."

Ian starts to say, "It's gonna suck," but the tough, stony look on Mickey's face stops him dead in his tracks. He's white-lipped, has his jaw set tight, and Ian—Ian feels like he's been punched in the gut. "You don't think I'll wait for you."

Mickey huffs again and thumbs his lip.

"Jesus Christ," Ian says, guilt knife-sharp in his chest. He'd really thought Mickey'd forgiven him. "I fucked up before. I know that. And I'd give anything to take that shit back. But I can't, and we—" he sighs and runs his hands through his hair. "If you really think I'm gonna bail the second I'm out of here, why're you even still with me?"

Mickey tugs at his wifebeater, enough to flash the tattoo on his chest. "Why the fuck do you think?"

+

"How many minutes 'til lunch?"

"Check the clock."

"I would, but your big fat head is blocking my view."

+

_Click. Clickclick_.

Ian sucks his teeth. Loudly.

_Click. Click. Clickclick_.

Ian sighs and pulls the floss out of his mouth. He sucks his teeth again.

_Clickclickclickclickclickclick_.

Ian snaps, "Okay," and turns around. Mickey's glaring at him like he's like he's getting ready to throw a punch. "Will you stop—"

"—stop fucking doing that."

Next door, Enzo shouts, "For the love of Christ," and bangs on the wall. "Not again."

"Mind your business, Enzo."

Ian tosses the floss packet in the sink and sits on Mickey's bunk. He says, "We need to talk."

"About what?"

"About the fact that we wanna kill each other."

"I don't know what you want from me. Stop being so annoying."

Ian almost rises to the bait, almost mentions the nagging, the pen-clicking, the fact that Mickey's shoes are always in the middle of the cell. Instead, he asks, "Remember when we first got here? We had fun together."

"Yeah. All we did was bang."

Ian just looks at him for a second—at this guy he's been in love with since he was fifteen. Mickey's been driving him up the wall all day, but he'd kiss him right now if he didn't think he'd get shoved away. "We laughed, too. What happened to us?"

"This place happened," Mickey complains. He throws the pen to the floor. "It gets to you."

"I don't want it to."

Mickey says, "Well," and hunches his shoulders, shifts on the bunk. "We don't really have much of a choice."

"How about, like… a temporary separation?"

"How we supposed to do that?"

"Well, I could stab Chester."

"What do you wanna stab Chester for?"

"He's gonna get released soon."

"Who gives a shit?"

"If I stab him, he gets to stay—"

"What are you talking about right now?"

"—and I get sent to solitary."

Mickey gives Ian a narrow, irritated look. Then he stands up and says, "Wait. Are you dumping me?"

"We need a break."

"Fuck you," Mickey spits. An angry flush is crawling up the side of his neck. "You're not dumping me, I'm dumping you. Where's the shiv?"

Ian says, "Hey," and gets to his feet. "Nobody's dumping anybody, okay?" He skims his fingers over Mickey's hip, but Mickey bats him away. "I just think we need a few days apart."

"Whatever, Gallagher. Where'd you put our shiv?"

Standing, Ian says, "It's behind the toilet." He pulls Mickey close and bites the hinge of his jaw. "What do you need it for?"

"I'm going to work."

Ian pulls back to look at him. "You need the shiv to do laundry?"

"No. I need the shiv in case Mulvaney tells me I've got a pretty mouth again."

"He _what_?"

Mickey says, "Don't worry about it," and pushes Ian away. "I'll have it back by dinner so you can stab Chester and get away from me."

+

Their tier gets another hour of free time before dinner. Instead of meeting Mickey in the exercise yard, Ian sneaks into the support wing and waits for him outside the laundry room. He's still working when Ian gets there, so Ian just watches him—the line of his shoulders, the dip of his spine, the curve of his ass. His jumpsuit is rolled down to his waist, and his wifebeater is steam-damp, clinging to his chest. Ian wants to drag him back to their cell, touch him everywhere.

When Mickey spots Ian at the door, he rolls his eyes. "The fuck are you doing here?"

"Me? I was just in the neighborhood."

"Sure you were, tough guy. If you're here for Mulvaney, I already took care of it."

"You kick his ass?"

A smile tugs at Mickey's mouth. "Of course I did."

+

Ian says, "Shit, shit, shit," and buries his hand in Mickey's hair. 

They're in a supply room that stinks of industrial-grade bleach, and a wire shelf is digging a bruise into Ian's back. But Mickey's mouth is around his dick, and he—fuck. He doesn't have the words for it: the heat, the soft-wet pressure, the relentless press and curl of Mickey's tongue. Mickey looks so good on his knees, eyes dark and cheeks flushed, lips red and wet.

He pulls off just as Ian's getting close, asks, "How long before they notice we're missing?" while stroking him with a too-dry hand. "Six minutes? Seven?" 

Right now, Ian doesn't give a shit. He makes a low, desperate noise and tugs on Mickey's hair.

Mickey laughs at him, then drags a wet kiss up the length of his dick, lets it rest on his lower lip for a second before sucking it back in. Ian rocks into it, chasing it, making the shelving unit creak and sway against his back. Mickey draws up and sinks down, draws up and sinks down. He has a hand in his jumpsuit, his shoulder rising and falling as he jerks himself off. 

Ian comes first, his legs shaking, and Mickey is right behind him.

+

Dinner is some kind of bolognese; it looks like puke and smells worse. The pasta is overcooked, and the meat is almost grey. Ian chokes down enough of it to settle his evening meds. 

After that, he pushes it around his plate while watching Mickey play dominos. They're at the center table—Mickey, an ABH named Simmons, and two carjackers who just transferred in. A pair of guards are sticking close, like they're waiting for it to erupt into a fight. 

Ian gathers his tray and heads for the garbage bins. Halfway there, he gets shoulder-checked by an older guy with a crooked nose and meth teeth—one of Mulvaney's friends.

"Gallagher," he says, looking Ian up and down. "Tell you bitch-ass boyfriend to watch his back."

He's gone before Ian can hit him, swallowed up by a group of guys moving toward the exit.

+

"I'm stabbing him," Ian snaps.

Mickey grabs at Ian's jumpsuit. "Not if I get there first."

It's their last hour of free time; now that it gets dark early and the weather's turned cold, nearly everyone is spending it inside. The catwalk is packed with guys just talking or standing around. Music is playing in one of the lower tiers.

When Ian gets to the stairs, he asks, "TV room?"

"Dining hall." Mickey waits for a group of gangbangers to pass them before continuing, "There's a card game tonight, and the stakes are pretty decent."

"Why aren't you playing? We need the smokes."

"I would be if you weren't trying to shank somebody."

"Hey, I can handle this myself."

"Yeah, but maybe you shouldn't." Mickey reaches out, very quickly touches Ian's wrist. "You got a parole hearing coming up."

A buzzer sounds in another cellblock. Ian says, "Yeah, and you want me to tank it."

"No, I don't," Mickey says, soft. "I wasn't—look. I came back because I wanted to. I figured a couple more years in the joint was better than never seeing you again. I didn't even know if you still—" He huffs. "You don't _owe_ me."

Before Ian can say anything, Torres corners them on the stairs. He says, "I've been looking for you two shitheads. A little bird told me you're sucking around for a fight."

+

The bench dips and squeaks as Mickey yanks on his cuff.

"Will you stop that?" Ian asks. He closes his eyes, tips his head back against the wall. "It's making me seasick."

Mickey snorts. "You're seasick 'cuz you didn't eat your fucking dinner."

"What the hell are you talking about? I ate dinner."

"You had like five bites. You know your meds go down easier if there's something in your stomach."

Ian says, "Oh, my God," and yanks on his own cuff. "Can we not do this at every single meal?"

"Fuck me for giving a shit," Mickey snaps. His hair is sticking up, snagged on the cinderblocks behind his head. "You have any idea what it's like, listening to you ralph all night just 'cuz you—"

"Marry me," Ian blurts.

Mickey blinks at Ian for a second, then stares at the wall for a really long time. Heat flushes his cheeks; he clenches his hands into white-knuckled fists. He clears his throat—once, twice.

Then: "What did you say?"

"Marry me. We can do it as soon as I get parole."

"Illinois doesn't do conjugal visits, asshole."

"That's not why," Ian says. His chest aches; he feels like his heart is beating in his throat. "I just—I want you to know that I'm gonna wait."

Mickey shakes his head. "I don't wanna do it just for that. If you're still feeling it when I get out, then we'll get married. We'll get rings and everything."

Ian takes a deep breath. "Yeah, okay."

+

Ian had the shiv, so he gets three days in the hole. Mickey only gets two.

Solitary is quiet; Ian sleeps a lot, gets caught up on his reading. He sings Army songs in his head and does about four hundred push-ups.

Mickey isn't there to make fun of him, or count his reps, or breathe too loudly after lights out.

+

They release Ian during the hour of free time after dinner—after Ian took his evening meds and choked down another serving of nutraloaf. General population is too noisy and crowded after three days in the hole, so Ian heads straight for his cell. He finds Mickey sprawled out on the top bunk, flipping through a magazine. He has shadows under his eyes, and he looks like he needs a shave.

When Ian comes in, he hops down and says, "It's about fucking time." He cups Ian's jaw, presses his thumb to Ian's lower lip. "You alright?"

Ian says, "Yeah," and pulls him into a hug. "I missed you."

"Yeah, I missed you too."


End file.
